


No Air

by FlyAway_33



Series: Everybody Hurts Sometimes [3]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Chest infection, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pneumonia, Sick Roger Taylor (Queen), Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:20:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23502241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyAway_33/pseuds/FlyAway_33
Summary: When he couldn’t quite hit a note he normally could with ease he blew it off as his smoking habit getting the best of him, he’d say he’d cut back a bit and rest his voice and would be back to himself in no time...
Series: Everybody Hurts Sometimes [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1691062
Comments: 4
Kudos: 48





	No Air

**Author's Note:**

> If you recognize this, it is because it has been posted before. I previously had it as part of a single story of unrelated chapters, and wanted to reorganize those chapters into individual stories so that I have the opportunity to continue and one of the multiple story lines. Now those chapters will all be re-posted into a series!

If there was one thing Roger Taylor truly hated, it was appearing weak. So when he came down with a terrible cold in the chilly, late autumn air of London he didn’t actively complain about it to the rest of the band. During their rehearsals and meetings when he would let out painful, hacking coughs or when he couldn’t quite hit a note he normally could with ease he blew it off as his smoking habit getting the best of him, he’d say he’d cut back a bit and rest his voice and would be back to himself in no time.

But that wasn’t the case and the boys knew it. They also knew their drummer well enough to know not to press the issue. Roger could become quite testy when he was accused of anything: he would become cold and closed off or explosively angry, as he had learned poor defense mechanisms in his formative years. 

Rehearsal was tough for him with his illness. Roger tried so hard to hide how miserable he really felt, but he’d spiked a fever the night before and it didn’t look like this simple cold was going anywhere any time soon. He thought about calling the boys and telling them that he needed a day off, but when he’d picked up the phone to call Freddie the frontman had other things to talk about.

Even just walking to the phone had Roger nearly wheezing. With shaking fingers he dialed the number he knew by heart and waited as it rang. 

“Helloooo” Freddie sang into the receiver, his buttery voice warped slightly through the speaker. “Mercury residence. May I ask who’s gracing my telephone line?”

“Fred, it’s Rog,” the drummer exhaled carefully, twisting the cord around his calloused fingers to channel his nerves. He hated calling off because if there was anyone as dedicated to music as Freddie, it was Roger, and he knew success didn’t come to those who didn’t work for it, and he also felt terrible about letting the boys down. 

“Oh, Roger, darling!” Freddie crowed in excitement. “I just have the most wonderful idea for a song in mind and I need your opinion on it! I can’t wait to hear what you think. I think you’ll like it, you see, there are some harmonies we’ll need your lovely range for, and we can do some overdubs and such…” 

Roger’s focus shifted from Freddie’s excited rant to his own disappointment. There was no way he could let his best friend down by telling him he couldn’t come to rehearsal. The frontman was talking a mile a minute and Roger just simply didn’t have it in him to kill his excitement. There was only one option, to buck up and go.

“… So enough about my idea, are you bringing anything in today?” 

“Nah, not today, Fred. Haven’t had any inspiration, I suppose.”

“Ah that’s alright, it’ll come, darling. You called?”

“Oh, uh, I completely forgot what for, Fred.” The lie slipped off his tongue like turpentine.

“Alright, love. If it comes to you tell me at rehearsal. I’ll see you soon!” Freddie hung up before Roger could say another word.

With a heavy sigh that sent Roger into a coughing fit he set the phone back on the hook and shuffled his way back to the couch. Rehearsal was in less than an hour and he was still in his gray sweatpants and oversized tour t-shirt, but the always fashionable “Rainbow Man” Taylor couldn’t find it in himself to care at all. He was incredibly uncomfortable: sweating one minute and shivering the next. Sometimes even both at the same time. His chest constricted painfully as he lazed on the couch, dreading having to get up, and a violent shiver ran down his spine as he was sent into another coughing fit that left him gasping painfully for air.

Roger could have stayed on that couch forever, but his watch read that it was time to get moving and he couldn’t leave his band high and dry without a drummer to practice with, so slowly but surely the stubborn blond got to his feet and shuffled to the door, sliding on his rattiest trainers that were usually only reserved for late night smoke breaks, and slipping his coat over his shoulders. He fished his keys out of the pocket and made his way to the car. He didn’t feel right. His chest was too tight and the world seemed to be tilting like it did whenever he was too drunk and laid in bed to stare at the ceiling, but he was too stubborn to call it quits now. The sickly drummer made it to his car in double the time he normally would and was actually wheezing as he slid into the driver’s seat. 

“Alright, Taylor, get it together,” he spat through gritted teeth as he fumbled to get the key in the ignition. Knuckles white against the steering wheel he drove maybe a little too slow to the rehearsal space at the college, focusing on the road as hard as he could to keep the world from swirling around in his fever induced haze. He pulled into the car park almost five minutes late, which wasn’t like him at all, and he wobbled dangerously as he pushed himself up out of the car. Steadying himself with a tight grip on the car door, he let himself catch his breath before heading in. Normally he’d have a smoke to clear his head on the way but he knew it wasn’t a good idea, not while his chest felt like it was in a vice grip.

By the time Roger approached the band room door he was ten minutes late and the boys were standing just inside, bickering.

“Somethings wrong, I spoke to him not too long ago, what if he got in an accident?” Freddie’s voice was an octave higher than normal and he sounded quite distressed.

“Calm down, Fred,” Roger was surprised to hear Brian attempting to be the voice of reason. “He probably just got caught up and lost track of time. I’m sure he’ll be here.”

“Wait, he’s here!” John’s voice rang out as Roger pushed the door open, creeping in as he drew shallow, rattling breaths. 

“Darling there you are!” Freddie shouted, throwing his arms dramatically around the blond’s shoulders. “Oh I was starting to get so worried, love! Wait,” the frontman gave his drummer a once over, a deep frown wiping away his excited expression. “Are you alright, Rog?” What Freddie saw was a sad sight indeed. Roger wasn’t wearing his normal decadent, bright attire, but instead was in what appeared to be pajamas. His dirty blond hair was tousled and looked unwashed, and he had dark circles under his eyes, contrasting sharply with his extremely pale features. He looked a right mess.

“I’m fine, Fred,” another lie, and he gently shoved the frontman’s arms away as he headed for the drum kit, plopping down in exhaustion onto the stool without bothering to remove his coat, as he felt cold anyway. “Let’s get on with it then.”

The other band members exchanged brief looks of concern and confusion before dispersing to tune their various instruments.

“Very well,” Brian began. “Doing Alright?” the guitarist strummed a few chords to key in the simple, slow song they often used to warm up together.

Out of all of their songs it was probably the easiest, least demanding for all of them to play, but as Roger lifted his drumsticks he felt as though he were drumming a much higher tempo song, his arms felt like led. His mind was in a haze as he used muscle memory to get through the song. If Freddie or Brian add libbed at all he didn’t catch on because he couldn’t focus on anything more that getting through the song. He drummed exactly as it was recorded and kept a count down in his mind of how much longer he’d have to go on, and by the second verse his chest felt as though it were legitimately on fire. 

By some miracle Roger made it through the song and dropped his sticks onto the snare drum without bothering to end the song neatly and his hands gripped his knees as he doubled over, gasping for breath. His body automatically tried to start his regular breathing exercise, in through his nose and out through his mouth, that he would often do between demanding songs in concert, but he felt as if the air was coming through the narrow passage of a coffee stir rather than through his nose and mouth. His mind went into overdrive and he repeated “you’re fine. you’re fine. you’re fine.” over and over in his internal monologue in attempt to calm himself down. 

But he wasn’t fine and he knew it. Something was very wrong.

“Rog?” John asked, setting his bass down and taking a cautious step toward the drummer. Though they all knew drumming was physically demanding, they also knew their drummer, and Doing Alright was usually a breeze for him. It was not normal nor okay that he was having such a hard time, yet he put up and hand to keep his bandmate at bay. 

“I’m… I’m fine… Deaky,” he wheezed painfully, interrupting himself with strangled coughs.

“You’re most definitely not okay, Roger,” Brian stated in a stern voice like a disappointed mother. 

Freddie hurried to his best friend’s side and placed a cautious hand on his shoulder and the other on his back to rub soothing circles. “Easy does it, now. We really should get you to a doctor, love.”

“N-no!” Roger cried in frustration, “I’m… I’m bloody fine!” Again dissolving into a fit of coughs, he wasn’t very convincing. “Look,” he panted, “Let’s just get through practice and I’ll go home and rest. I’ll be okay soon enough.”

“Oh don’t be so fucking ridiculous,” Brian sighed, already packing the Red Special back into her case. “We’re taking you to the hospital right now. You can barely breathe, Rog. You’ve been sick all week and hiding it from us, just admit it.”

“F-fine.” Roger stuttered, a lump forming in his already sore throat. He’d been caught and he had to give in or he’d only make it worse for himself. 

“You’re not in trouble, Roger,” the guitarist’s voice and expression softened as he watched the panicked look in the drummer’s eyes. “We just want to help but you’re stubborn as a bloody ox.”

Roger nodded as tears of frustration welled in his eyes and all three of his bandmates surrounded him and helped him to his feet before guiding him toward the door and out to the car park. They settled him into the back seat of John’s tiny car and Freddie joined him, pulling him down to rest his head in his lap and carding a hand through his already messy hair, while Brian and John sat up front. 

The ride to the hospital was agonizing for Roger and his bandmates. Now that he could stop pretending it was as if all he was feeling had come crashing down like a waterfall and he felt worse than ever. His chest now felt so tight he could barley sustain consciousness and his fever haze had worsened ten fold. He was practically rolling around in misery as tears began to flow from the corners of his eyes, and the wet sobs attempting to tear from his chest only made everything feel so much worse. It felt as if his lungs were trapped and he couldn’t do anything about it. It was extremely hard for them to see him in so much pain, especially Freddie who held his best friend in his lap the whole way.

The boys herded their drummer into the luckily empty emergency department and when the nurses saw the state he was in they took him back immediately. A cold stethoscope, one chest x-ray, a nebulizer treatment, and a mild sedative to calm his nerves and Roger was relaxed against the stiff sheets of a hospital bed, eyelids drooping sleepily as his bandmates surrounded him. 

“Bloody pneumonia.” Brian spat in disbelief. “You had a cold but because you were too stubborn or too proud or whatever it is you were to take a damn break now you have bloody pneumonia! Roger, do you have any idea how serious this is? People die from pneumonia!” The guitarist spoke with a panic in his voice, flourishing his arms around in exasperation. 

“It’s not the eighteenth century, Bri. It’s not that serious.” Roger slurred, exhaustion and sedation starting to get the better of him.

“Well, yes it is, Roger.” John pointed out meekly, gesturing to the x-ray the doctor had left up in the room. It showed severe infection in Rogers already smoke damaged lungs. They were filled with an ungodly amount of fluid and the doctor had been shocked that Roger had been drumming before coming in, saying he shouldn’t have even been on his feet. 

“You’re a biology major, and you were in fucking medical school for God’s sake, Roger!” Brian cried, “You should bloody well know better!”

“I’m fine…” Roger slurred, barely even conscious. 

“Shh!” Freddie hissed, finally speaking up. “You’re yelling at him because he didn’t take care of himself so stop making a racket and let the poor man sleep!” Freddie plopped down into a chair beside the drummer’s bed and gently took his hand as the latter slipped fully into sedation. “Why don’t the two of you go pack up the rehearsal space and take his car home,” Freddie tossed the keys he’d taken from Roger’s coat in Brian’s general direction. “I can call when he gets released. Or you can come back before that. I don’t care. I agree he was being stupid, I just think he’s suffered enough, don’t you?”

Begrudgingly the two remaining bandmates nodded and scurried out of the room to take care of the instruments and other possessions left at the college, and Freddie stayed behind to stand sentry over the ill drummer, making sure to drape an extra blanket over his sleeping friend. 

Freddie was just glad that Roger would recover and be completely back to normal in a few weeks’ time, and was eternally grateful that Roger had been with the band when he’d gone downhill so fast. They were able to get him help that they all knew knew the stubborn drummer would have never gotten on his own. Freddie didn’t know it, but his enthusiasm to hold rehearsal that day had been what had essentially saved his friend from a much worse fate.


End file.
